the fool’s back pocket…

Yeah, I heard the stories about people way out West, always quitting something and starting something else like an apoplectic eel. That’s no way to go through life. The only real alternative is to be willing to place all that you own in some metaphorical box and leave it for the homeless out on the street at night. It’s only when you come to from that plaintive coma that you are ready to admit all your faults, all your miserable decisions, all of the shit you swore you’d never ever fuck up, then went ahead and did anyway. There is something lovable about that misguided attempt at vain expression. Where is the imagination?

Is that nobody really wants to forgive and forget? I’m included in that… carrying around a few millstones the last couple of years when it would have been easier to let it go wherever all those people that you used to know go when you don’t know them anymore. I don’t feel like it’s a place to visit or anything, more like a place to leave garbage before it starts to smell. That would explain an awful lot. No questions, no questions, I’m on a roll. (But we wanna knooooow…)

But it’s all coming out as anger. Angry with the damn phone for not ringing, then angry at the fucking thing because it won’t stop making noise. These interruptions are driving me up the wall; I’m stalking around the room working up the rage to get over the lonely blasphemy. This puerile reaction makes me sick, wanting to stab the guy in the mirror just to see him bleed and his lungs make that sucking sound when there’s a shiv letting out the air. I heard that if it’s cold enough, steam will come out. I’ve never seen it myself, maybe it’s bullshit. This kind of sick hatred doesn’t answer to any kind of control, only to those moments when clarity breaks through the slick veneer and I notice that I was about to smash the mirror with a hand wrapped in a t-shirt. But why?

Like an elemental mistrust that grows out of long silent talks and mournful glances at the clock on the wall, something doesn’t add up. In my frenzy to attack something, anything, to symbolize the frustrations of being unable to voice this peculiar complaint I’ve forgotten what it was that set me off. Does it even matter? The incidence of almost myopic violence loosened forth by a picture at the bottom of a shoebox makes me laugh then cry in descending order. My troops want to flee the battlefield instead of risking death or dismemberment on such a foolish quest. Nobody ever said liberation comes cheap. Not in this case.

While all of this ramps, declines and undulates, a small quiet voice calls out from the woodwork replete with reminders that nothing will turn back the clock, and if we don’t make it up and over, the wall will still be there tomorrow, and maybe even after that. And without the slightest shudder or tremble, I realize I’ve handcuffed myself again, though not to the radiator, at least not this time. Trying to throw off the shackles is impossible. Looking around the room, I can barely see with the smoke rising and shrinking the room to dimensions just short of livable.

What had happened? From where did these thoughts begin? There was a conspicuous absence of clues. My memory didn’t seem responsive to the shifting scenery… one minute everything in the room seemed haphazardly arranged, and in an instant changed beyond recognition. I felt very strongly that I was thinking about something important, but I’d be dipped in shit if I could figure out what it was. With each passing moment the importance I attached to the whole scene seemed arbitrary and capricious rather than the serious malformation it had been some time past. I stumbled out of the room to smoke a cigarette and consider my options. I’m not looking for any kind of reinforcement. I just really need a smoke. It ain’t up for discussion, and I will spit swear and remonstrate before bending to something as ephemeral as a the ghost of exmiss past.

On the way outside, I’ll stop at the mirror and laugh at what I see. It’s the only way to maintain the farce… and it keeps me humble. You know, those deists are always saying pride cometh before a fall, but I’m only one floor above the ground. I just don’t have that far to fall. It ain’t up for discussion. It never is. Let’s talk.